Into the Inferno
by kanikkers
Summary: Post-Dark Knight. An inmate meets two of the most feared patients at Arkham Asylum. No fluffy Joker or sweetie Scarecrow here. HIATUS!
1. A Bet

"Five bucks if you go talk to 'em."

"Make it twenty-five, and give me the money now."

Carly kicked her chair back and rested her shoes on the table with a grin. The inmate across from her watched her feet for a moment, then shrugged and dug some money out of his pocket. "Your funeral," he told her as she tucked the bills into her sock, the only place the guards wouldn't _ever_ look, and glanced over at the other end of the rec room. "You could use it for surgery, y'know." She looked back at him, and he smiled and yanked his index finger from the corner of his mouth to his ear as if to warn her of what was to come. She scowled.

The room had, since last week, been divided in two. One half was made up of terrified inmates who all sat as close to the wall as they could. The guards stood at the card-access door, always watching, always waiting for something awful to happen.

On the other side sat two men, chatting every now and then, shooting glances across the room that sent the men and women there into spasms of panic.

That was because everyone in Akham Asylum knew who these two were. Carly watched them with an appraising eye. Dr. Jonathan Crane, better known as Scarecrow, picked meticulously at his nails as the Joker chatted disjointedly at him, pausing every few words to moisten the scars at the edges of his mouth.

She sighed and looked back at the man she'd bet with. "See you in a few," she told him with a half-grin. He jerked nervously when she stood up, and smiled nastily again.

"Yeah, right."

Carly couldn't understand for the life of her why Scary and Clownface were so goddamn terrifying. The asylum was watched twenty-four seven by dozens of guards, who she'd learned from experience were like pit bulls on steroids. Besides, if either of these guys actually managed to _do_ something, it wouldn't really matter. A gruesome death at the hands of a murdering psycho was probably better than hanging around this dump forever.

She grabbed her chair and dragged it across the room with a loud, drawn-out squeal; all other noise ceased besides the Joker's chattering. Then she dropped it haphazardly in front of the two and thumped into it. All was silent for a moment; even the guards grasped their batons more tightly.

"Hey."

Crane turned his eyes on her with a detached, disinterested look. The Joker ignored her completely. He broke off what he'd been telling Crane mid-sentence and leered at the guards, snickering as they shifted uncomfortably. Carly watched the guards for a moment too, until a bored voice interrupted the silence. "You're twitching."

She turned back to Crane, who looked pointedly at the hand that dangled at her side. She followed his gaze. Her fingers _were_ twitching, tapping into each other and tracing shapes on her dull orange uniform jumpsuit. She watched them in fascination for a moment. Then she turned her face back up to Crane with a smile. "We're in an asylum," she informed him mildly.

"Not everyone here _twitches_," he replied slowly and deliberately, interlocking his hands and placing them professionally on his lap. "_I_ don't…twitch. The fact that you do indicates either an excitatory mental abnormality or excess energy. If the former case is true…"

"Doc?"

He met her eyes sharply at the interruption. "Yes?"

"Are you bored or something?"

He grinned bitterly and his eyes trailed away again. "_Insanely_."

A chuckle made Carly look over to the Joker. She drew back quickly; he was leaning forward in his chair, inches away from her. Every nerve in her body screamed for flight, but even Carly wasn't brave (or stupid) enough to react to the Joker. A glance to the side revealed that the guards by the door were watching him closely. "Didn't know you had it _in_ you, Doc," he said, smacking his lips. His eyes locked on hers. "A sense of _hu-_more. Never knew…So what are _you_ here for, darlin'?"

She stared for a moment, thrown by his sudden change of topic. Crane's quiet voice saved her. "He's trying to intimidate you…'darling'. Trademark narcissistic behavior." He crossed his legs eloquently and looked to the Joker, whose grin had flipped into a dramatic sad-clown frown.

"Aww, Doc, you keep ruining the _fun_," he lamented, not a trace of true disappointment on his scarred face. He sighed and tiled his head back. "Besides, 'm just _chatting_ with the little lady. No narcissism here, no-sirree." Carly and Crane looked at each other, and the Joker brought his head back up, saw them, and laughed languidly. "Well, now that we're all _chummy_…"

"Miss Fisher?"

Carly looked up. A blond woman, wearing the signature orange-rimmed nametag of an Arkham psychologist, was walking across the room. She paused with a frown when she recognized Carly's new acquaintances. "Miss Fisher, it's time for our session," the doctor said, finally looking back at Carly with worried eyes.

"Too bad," the Joker said, grinning his too-wide smile as Carly stood obediently. "We were getting to be _such – good – friends._"

Carly blinked. It was an odd feeling, not knowing what to say. Then she felt the crumpled bills rubbing against her ankle and remembered that this was all just a stupid bet, that she didn't have to say another word to either of these lunatics if she didn't want to. So she just nodded to the doctor. The calculating gazes of both men followed them all the way out of the room.


	2. Session One

"Miss Fisher? Miss Fisher, are you ready to begin?"

Carly finally turned away from the two-way mirror, where she'd been having an imaginary staring contest with the guards outside. "Oh, yeah, sure," she told her psychiatrist, who had introduced herself several minutes ago as Dr. Harleen Quinzel. "I'm listening, I swear." Carly's fingers beat a bored rhythm on her Arkham uniform. She crossed one leg over the other and sat up primly on her uncomfortable chair; the doctor, she noted, had been given a seat with a cushion. "So what are the charges this time?"

Harleen frowned. "Charges? This isn't a prison, Miss Fisher..." Carly snorted and looked away with a grin. "We're just here to talk about any problems you might be having." Quinzel shuffled through the papers in front of her and found the one she wanted. "It says here you've been in and out of Arkham for the last three years, and only recently admitted for extended care…"

"Spare me, Harl," Carly replied flippantly. It put a frown on Quinzel's face. "Fine, bad nickname. Q, then." The other woman smiled a bit and added a note to her clipboard. Carly watched her with great interest, then re-crossed her legs.

"So, like I said, what've you got me down for? No, wait, let me guess." She tilted her head back with a huge grin and shut her eyes, tracing her fingers through the air as if spelling out her words. "Definite schizophrenia, possible MPD or bipolarity due to intense mood swings, slight obsessive-compulsive behavior..." Her voice faded, then turned into laughter at the look on the doctor's face. "I've been through this before, Q, with _many_ other doctors," Carly explained. She twitched her nose. "Anything I missed?"

Quinzel sat up straighter and looked instantly more businesslike; she was eager to gain control of the conversation. "The pyromania." Carly raised her eyebrows. "You've been arrested three times for arson, Miss Fisher, and…"

"Carly." Quinzel looked up at the interruption. Carly was watching her once more with her head tilted. "It's Carly, not 'Miss Fisher'. Miss Fisher," she continued with a hysterical giggle, "is my _husband_." She broke out in childish laughter. Quinzel waited until she was done, jotted down a few notes, then set her clipboard on the table between them.

"You seem to know so much about your conditions, Carly. Why don't _you_ lead the discussion?" she suggested, smoothing her skirt with professional grace. Carly grimaced and blew out a sigh, leaning her chair back on two legs and lacing her arms behind her back. So the good doc wanted to play some games. Fine. Carly would play along, like the well-behaved little puppy she was.

She closed her eyes with a dramatic sigh, as if in pain. "Well, doc, to tell the truth…" She latched on to the first thing she could think of. "I think I'm this way because of my dog. Poor little Maxie; he was so cold in the winter, and my mommy wouldn't let him inside with all his _fleas_…" She languidly scratched her neck and looked up at Quinzel with enormous, weepy eyes. "All I wanted was to keep the poor guy warm. And his fur was so darn _flammable_…"

She dissolved into tears and wept heavily for a few moments before peeking up through her lashes at Quinzel. The woman stared at her skeptically.

"_What_?"

Quinzel didn't respond. Carly finally grinned and leaned forward in her chair, placing her elbows on the table and tucking her wet cheeks into her hands.

"Well, come on, Doc, you didn't honestly think it'd be that easy." Carly's voice was friendly, confidential. "You can't just say 'bark' and I'll start yapping." She leaned back again and inspected the doctor. "You're new here."

"New hire," Quinzel replied in a flat tone.

There was a moment of silence, and Carly began wiping the semi-dried tears off of her face. "Pretty good trick, though, huh?" she said with a nervous smile. She didn't trust Quinzel's sudden silence. Usually, silence meant that a platoon of guards were about to come in and wrestle her off to a shock therapy session. As medieval as Arkham's methods were, they were also usually effective in scaring patients into line. "I mean, I ought to go into _theater_, or somethin'…"

"I get the feeling you don't respect me, Carly."

Carly sighed in relief. That was all? "Oh, no, I respect you _lots_," she replied promptly and earnestly, like a schoolgirl seeking praise. "I respect you so much it's just _killing_ m-…"

"No, you don't," Quinzel interrupted her. She watched Carly with sharp eyes; the younger woman squirmed. "You respect my power, my…influence over what happens to you. But you don't respect _me._ Doctor Harleen Quinzel."

Carly matched the frankness in Quinzel's tone. "See, the 'Doctor' part is what I have trouble with," she replied, again kicking back her chair. "In my oh-so-extensive experience, doctors are sort of numero uno on the "Do Not Trust" list. You're always…_manipulating._ Prodding, poking, disturbing stuff that you've got no right to disturb. An' it's not 'cause you _care_, Christ, no…" She paused and met Quinzel's clear blue gaze. "It's because if you do it enough there's a nice, fat paycheck waiting for you at the end of it."

There was another long silence, during which the two eyed each other. Then Quinzel sighed and seemed to collapse in on herself. "Listen, Carly, I don't want to be that kind f doctor. I've seen them, and…well, it's made me wish sometimes that I wasn't in this profession. Can you trust that I won't be that kind of doctor?"

Trust her? About as far as she could _throw_ her. Carly squinted at Quinzel, then grinned. Actually, she could probably throw her a _lot_ farther than she could trust her, considering the doc was so petite and all. But it might be better to brown-nose a bit at this point. The threat of violence still hung over Carly's mind. "Sure, Q," she finally replied with a winning smile. "You're the real deal. We all done?"

"For now." Quinzel nodded with a relieved sigh. Carly almost felt bad, then snorted; that was a bit "almost". "I'm tired, and I'm sure you are, too," the doctor said, standing up. She checked her watch. "Rec time's over now, so you'll just head back to your room." The door's electronic lock buzzed open, and Carly's escorts entered the room with handcuffs. Not all of the crazies had to be carted around under lock and key, but Carly had a bit of a bad record. Well, it wasn't _her_ damn fault that one guard liked to carry his cigarette lighter in his pocket.

Once Carly was secured and ready to go, she paused at the door. She turned back to Quinzel with an innocent smile.

"Oh, and I wasn't kidding about my dog," she said pleasantly. The door shut behind her on Quinzel's horrified expression.


End file.
